


storm clouds may gather, stars may collide (but i love you until the end of time)

by Meyou__greenblue



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Liam, Actor Niall, Actor Zayn, Dancer Louis, Friends to Lovers, Harry is Christian, Harry is also anxious, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Moulin Rouge!, Kind of arranged marriage, Louis is Satine, M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, Performer Louis, Period-Typical Homophobia, SO DON'T COME FOR ME, Secret Relationship, Secret love, Singer Louis, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Harry, early 1900s, if you squint hard enough there's a hint of side ziam, mentions of anxiety attacks, no one dies like in the movie don't worry, not historically accurate, please let me know if there's anything else i need to tage, um idk what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 16:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30075057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meyou__greenblue/pseuds/Meyou__greenblue
Summary: The year is sometime in the early 1910s and when twenty-year-old Harry Styles moves to London to pursue his dreams of becoming a writer, he doesn’t expect to meet Louis Tomlinson, a singer and a dancer who works at London, England’s own Moulin Rouge, the Belle Ame.After stumbling upon Niall, Liam and Zayn - an acting troupe with big dreams and bigger personalities-, Harry is introduced to Louis as a famous playwright in hopes that Louis can use his club connections to help them put on a show they’ve written to an actual audience. Harry and Louis find themselves drawn to each other almost immediately and despite the views of the time, as well as the very important fact that Louis is meant to marry the daughter of the wealthy, part owner of the club, Charles Austin, the two men can’t help but fall in love quickly and so very deeply.Through it all, they come to learn that what is said is true... that 'the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return'....Or, a very loosely, non-historically accurate Moulin Rouge! based au where Harry is a writer and Louis is a performer and love tries its very best to prove that it can conquer through anything.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Louis Tomlinson/Original Female Character(s), Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Kudos: 2





	storm clouds may gather, stars may collide (but i love you until the end of time)

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi friends welcome to yet another fic idea i can't get out of my head and that i want to post because i need validation that my writing is good even though it's not even close to finish and idk when i'll update ha ha ha... anyways... :-)))
> 
> moulin rouge is my favourite movie and so that means i'm required by law to write a larry fic about it even if nobody asked for it. and so i did. 
> 
> listen, i'm just going to say this now: the 2001 musical moulin rouge (directed, produced, and written by the one and only baz luhrmann) is a jukebox musical where the soundtrack is composed of songs such as like a virgin, all you need is love, and my personal fav, lady marmalade which meeeeans that in typical baz luhrmann style, despite the fact that it's set in 1899, it is also very very modern (i mean HELLO they do a tango to roxanne by the police like cmon now) and so basically what i'm saying is, this story was built on very little googling and a lot of wikipedia so please don't expect it to be historically accurate. so if the characters sound like they're talking straight out of 2021, it's cuz they are and it's just me adding a little baz luhrmann modern flair to the whole thing ok? ok. good. the actual year it's set in doesn't actually mean anything i just wanted it to be around the time the movie is supposed to take place so that i had period typical homophobia to work with (that sounds soo bad i'm so sorry :/)
> 
> um, so yeah! enjoy! leave comments, and kudos and whatnot! they are much appreciated. 
> 
> title is from the song 'come what may' from the movie of course.
> 
> QUICK TW // BEFORE WE BEGIN: a character has a slight panic attack at some point and so if that is something that may trigger you, just thought i'd warn ya. i think you'll be able to tell when it starts, but i've put * at the beginning and end so you know what to skip through since it's not a long section at all.
> 
> also, this story is dedicated to eleanor so if you're reading this... hi el! ily and thanks for being my biggest fan! xoxo

**i.**

…

_“Do you believe in… love?”_

_“Love? Love. Above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love.”_

…

**LONDON, ENGLAND - SOMETIME BETWEEN 1899 AND 1913**

The sun has gone down completely by the time Harry’s train finally pulls into the station. It’s the screeching of the wheels on the tracks as the train stutters to a stop that finally rouses Harry from sleep, the ear piercing squeal of metal on metal what forces him awake. He blinks his eyes open slowly, taking his time for his pupils to adjust to the darkness of the carriage before he rises from his seat. Every muscle in his body aches from sitting in the same place for so long, his neck having tilted at an awkward angle when he fell asleep, and so he twists and stretches his limbs out one by one, just like he’s seen his cat do so many times before. He stands, dusts off and adjusts his trousers from where they’ve bunched on his thighs and then he reaches for his luggage. With only a single suitcase and a top hat that he places upon his head, it doesn’t take him long to collect his things and depart.

He hops down the few steps it takes to exit the train onto and though it’s late in the evening, he’s immediately swept up into the hustle and bustle of the London station. For a moment it overwhelms Harry - the number of people in just this one area equivalent to the entirety of Holmes Chapel, the sounds of everything all-consuming, the way everyone walks past him with a determined focus -, but then he reminds himself that he’s _here_ , in London, this station acting as the final obstacle between his old life and his new one, and within a single moment his anxiety is replaced with excitement.

It’s raining when he steps out onto the cobblestone streets of London and he pulls his jacket around him a little tighter as he trudges forward into the damp night. Not that he’s surprised by the rain, of course, it was the one thing that the people back home wouldn’t let him forget, the thing they were constantly warning him about whenever he spoke of his dreams to move to London. He assumes it was meant as a deterrent, a way to discourage him from leaving the confines of his hometown village to pursue what his mother referred to as a _childish daydream_ but it only served as motivation, to get as far away as possible from the people who thought they had a say in Harry’s life in such a way. So, no, he’s not surprised by the rain in the slightest, in fact he welcomes its truth and consistency, but he was just hoping for the chance that his welcome into the city would be a little bit more, well… welcoming. And a little drier maybe. His thin coat not doing much to offer any sort of protection against the misty air.

He made it to London though, and that’s all that matters in the end, really.

That, and finding a safe place to spend the night.

Much to his mother’s dismay, Harry only planned as far as the train ride from Holmes Chapel to London, and not much else after that. He figured the only way to truly let himself find freedom in the new city was to not tie himself down to a certain area by choosing a place to live before he actually arrived, and instead letting his heart decide. Call it naive, or call it chasing fate, what have you, it just means Harry now finds himself at the end of the line with twenty pounds in his pocket and his mother’s voice in his head saying _“The first thing you do when you arrive is find a place to stay, Harry Edward, I’m serious. I will not have you sleeping on the street like some sort of wino”_. 

Even though it’s a simple echo in his mind, Harry can’t help but roll his eyes as he walks. As if his plan was to end up a drunk with no place to live the minute he left home. His mother was always so dramatic that way, never seemed to have any faith in her only son.

It only takes ten minutes of walking in search of a hotel when the rain starts to pick up, bringing cold, harsh winds with it, and soaking Harry’s jacket all the way through. With nothing else to keep him warm or any sort of umbrella, Harry finds himself with no choice but to duck into the nearest building for shelter, at least until the weather lets up slightly or his coat dries out (whichever comes first).

He wanders for a couple paces more before he spots a small church just across the street and jogs over. To keep his hat from flying away, he places a hand on the top of his head, while the other grips the handle of his suitcase tightly so it does not slip from his grasp. He climbs the steps of the church two at a time in order to get inside the building as fast as possible.

It takes a great deal of strength from him to pull open the thick, wooden door against the now howling wind, his muscles still tight from the train ride and his fingers numb from the cold, all the while trying to juggle not losing his hat to the gale and his suitcase. After a few more tugs, he eventually gets it open with a final yank and a huff of breath. 

As he steps inside, he’s immediately welcomed by a blast of warm air and he’s thankful for the protection from the ever-brewing storm outside, the rush of the wind still audible even from inside the church, the pound of the rain against the wood still prevalent after it scrapes shut.

He stands there for a moment, letting the rain drip off of his jacket before he slowly peels the drenched garment off and hangs both it and his hat on the hook by the entrance. He feels terrible dripping all over the floor but there’s nothing he can do to prevent that in this case besides taking his trousers off and wringing them out, and that’s definitely not going to happen. This is a place of worship, he has _some_ decency, even without the presence of other people to scold him. (Though his mother has always said he had a bad habit of getting naked in inappropriate places as a child, and it may or may _not_ be something he’s grown out of).

Once he’s slightly drier, leaving only a confined puddle just inside the door, he takes quiet and tentative steps further into the building to explore. There’s something about the roaring wind outside being replaced by the silence of the church inside that makes Harry feel as though he’s intruding. Even sound seeming ten times louder than they usually would.

The entryway of the church is it’s own front room, a slightly smaller but still solid wooden door between where he is and the actual chapel. The floors are all wood as well, creaking slightly with every step. There’s a staircase to this left that he assumes leads to the upper pews and Harry contemplates going up, but he decides against it and hauls the other door open instead.

His first thought when he’s welcomed with the sight of the proper inside of the church is that it is much more spacious on the inside than it seemed from the outside. The ceilings are tall and rounded and stretch higher than anything Harry’s ever seen before, grandiosity not something that exists within the tiny town that is Holmes Chapel, and there’s a long aisle leading from the door Harry’s just walked through all the way to where an organ stands tall, taking up a whole third of the back wall of the church. Harry’s mouth drops open in awe at the magnificent instrument. Different sized pipes towering out from a cherry wood base so high that they almost reach the ceiling and rows upon rows of ivory keys. It’s larger than life, a piece of art in and of itself that Harry almost doesn’t even notice the stained glass windows that run along the side walls, bathing the building in colourful light. Each window depicts a different scene in such painstaking detail that Harry feels as though he’s reading the bible just by looking at them, the face of Jesus easily definable within the shards of glass. Filling up the rest of the space are dark and sturdy pews, made from the same red tinted wood as the organ. Harry’s so enamoured by it all, his breath so blown away as his eyes scan around the room that he almost misses the group of people standing in front of the very first pew and yelling at each other.

It’s three men who all look to be somewhat around Harry’s age engaged in what seems to be quite the heated argument. 

He can’t hear exactly what it is that they’re saying, due to the fact that their voices are constantly overlapping each other, none of them willing to let the others speak their turn, but the tone of their voices echo through the empty church and Harry can hear the frustration running through them. He can also make out the annoyance etched on each of their faces even from across the room, further emphasizing the irritation of them all.

The biggest of the three, a man with cropped brown hair, is shouting in the face of a slightly shorter blond lad who is screaming right back. The third, an absolutely gorgeous man if Harry does say so himself, has dark hair and darker skin than the other two, and is standing off to the side of the pair. He’s got his eyes closed and his finger pressed his temples, rubbing them in slow circles, the physical manifestation of the words _fed up_.

None of them seem to notice Harry there but even so while the blond continues to wave his hands around exasperatedly, Harry reminds himself that he should leave. Reminds himself that this is an intrusion of privacy and that he’d better get back out into the rain and find a place to stay for the evening before it gets too late. 

But alas, his curiosity gets the best of him instead and he slides down into the last bench as quietly as he can, craning his ears to try and listen.

“ _I_ just think it would make more sense if Zayn entered the scene before Liam, otherwise it makes no sense at all,” the blond explains and it’s coated in what Harry believes to be a twinge of an Irish accent.

At that, the darker haired boy’s eyes snap open and he gestures forcefully at a spot on the floor to his right, his voice completely exhausted when he says, “But Liam’s already going to be _here_ from before and so it would make even less sense for him to leave and then come right back.”

“Then we just need to rewrite the entire bit from before so that he has a reason to exit,” the blond suggests instead.

“Right, right… ‘just’,” he mimics back with an eye roll.

“We can’t just rewrite the entire scene, Niall,” the third man says when he finally speaks for the first time. His voice is gentler than the other two but Harry can still tell that it’s just one of those disagreements with no real ending, one they’ve most likely been at for hours by now judging by the weariness is all their voices and the way that they look ready to rip each other’s heads off. “We’d have to rewrite the entire play if we did that.”

“So, what if we just cut Zayn from this part and reintroduce him later on when it makes sense again?”

Zayn widens his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “And have me be missing from the most important scene in the entire show? No fucking way,” he snaps. 

Right as Zayn decides he’s finally had enough and looks like he may turn to walk away towards the back of the church to where Harry is sitting, Harry feels a tickle in his throat and before Zayn can even take another step, Harry lets out a sneeze that ricochets through the entire church. Three bodies turn toward him in surprise. 

“Hello?” the tallest one (Liam, Harry thinks his name was), asks tentatively from the other end of the room, narrowing his eyes at the back of the church to where Harry sits in the shadows.

  
  


He scurries to his feet so the boys can see him even though he must look absolutely ridiculous, with his cheeks flushed and his clothes wrinkled and soaking wet. He smooths the front of his shirt as he stands, attempting to fix it a little, aware it won’t make a difference yet not knowing what else to do with his hands.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters out. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just- It’s raining quite heavily outside and I’ve got nowhere to stay. I’ve just arrived here in London, you see, and- I didn’t realize there was anyone in here. I apologize.”

Under the heavy gaze of the three men, Harry turns to leave with a quick apologetic wave and a duck of his head, damp curls falling limply across his forehead, dripping into his eyes. He gets about two steps down the aisle towards the exit when an Irish voice stops him.

“No need to apologize, mate. This is God’s house and all that, we don’t own the place.”

Harry tries to push his hair back to semi-presentable before he spins around to face them again. He feels frozen in place, both literally and temperature-wise, and is not quite sure what he’s stumbled upon or what to do next, knowing only that he doesn’t exactly want to go back out into the frigid rainy night he’s only just escaped from. He takes a few insecure steps forward.

“You an actor?” The one named Niall asks.

“Erm, no,” Harry mutters, taking another step closer to the group. They all stand straight-faced, looking at him while he trembles from both the cold and the scrutiny, and he looks away while he explains, “I’m a writer, actually. Well, I mean… I want to _be_ a writer. I’m, uh- I’m not much of anything now, but yeah. I’d like to be a writer.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then the blond’s mouth stretches into a beaming smile and he rushes forwards toward Harry.

“Even better!” he exclaims, crossing the length of the church to where Harry is standing and grabbing him by the wrist. “Maybe you can help us with something then.”

He tugs Harry along, basically dragging him across the roof to the front of the church to where the other two are still standing unemotionally in front of the organ. 

When they reach the other two boys, Niall points to each of them, “Liam, Zayn, this is-”

Harry clears his throat, “Harry. Harry Styles,” he finishes for Niall and then he offers his right hand out of courtesy and they all shake hands, both Liam and Zayn’s palms warm against Harry’s cold one. They still look a little confused but Harry can’t say he blames them all that much. He’s a soaking wet, disheveled stranger, who was caught spying on them, he would be hesitant as well.

“Real name or one of those made up writer names?” Zayn asks. His dark eyes narrow, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening slightly.

“Real name.”

Zayn nods and lets go. 

“Well, then. I’m Niall,” the blond says, pointing at himself and then wrapping Harry’s hand in both of his own and shaking vigorously. “Your mum must have known you would go on to do great things because that is a famous person’s name if I’ve ever heard one. _Harry Styles_ ,” he repeats, extracting his hands from Harry’s and sweeping them in a rainbow-shaped motion. “That is quite somethin’.”

Pink floods across Harry’s cheeks, not used to attention like this before. He chuckles a little as well, a nervous habit. “Uh, thank you. It’s very nice to meet you lads.”

Niall smiles at him widely. “You too. Anyways,” he claps his hands together once and it cracks loudly through the room. Harry startles, still a little abuzz from being in a new place he no longer knows like the back of his hand and everything that has happened to him since. “Boys, this is Harry. He’s a writer and he’s going to help us resolve the issue in scene five, alright?”

“He is?” Zayn asks just as Harry says, “I am?”

“Shouldn’t we get him a blanket first?” Liam adds. “He must be freezing.”

Niall throws an arm around Harry's shoulders, seemingly not caring about getting his clothes wet, “We will, Li, don’t worry. But yes, you are.” He steers Harry towards the front pew where there’s a pile of clothes on the floor that Harry wasn’t able to see before and gestures to them in a _help yourself_ motion. “Since you’re a writer, I figure you’ll be able to tell us how to fix this bit we’re stuck on, since we can’t figure it out ourselves without screaming each other’s heads off.”

Harry pauses for a moment, still unsure about whether spending the night with three complete strangers, in an empty church, in the middle of a rainstorm is a good idea or if he’ll be a corpse under the floorboards come sunrise. 

“Only if you want to, of course,” Liam adds gently as he offers him a blanket and Harry realizes the usual fight or flight instinct that usually screams at him to flee isn’t there, and they really _don’t_ look like the type to murder him in cold blood, so he lets himself nod slightly, taking the blanket from Liam and wrapping around his shoulders.

“Oh, um, okay. Alright,” he says, and his lips pull up into a smile.

Niall whoops and jumps right into action, squeezing Harry’s shoulder once and then stepping away. He grins and claps again before walking off, “Ok, top of scene five. Let’s go.”

Next to him, Zayn leans over to talk right in Harry’s ear, “He thinks he’s in charge but he’s really not. So you don’t have to listen to what he tells you to do if you don’t want to, just by the way.” He pulls away and winks, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Harry before he walks to go stand where he’s meant to in the show.

Once Harry has changed into a dry sweater (as per Liam’s instruction), settled himself into the front pew and the three other boys have shuffled around the stage area, they perform the scene. Though he doesn’t have the context of the rest of the show, Harry can see how it doesn’t make sense. Liam starts in a weird spot on stage that doesn’t make the transition flow smoothly and then Zayn’s character comes in during a point that just doesn’t quite match up with the lines that he’s saying. It’s just messy and slightly confusing, but there’s potential for sure. Harry’s mind is buzzing with ways to fix it. When the scene ends, they turn to Harry expectantly.

“So,” Liam says first. “How do we fix this, Mr. Writer?”

There’s an idea Harry has that swirls around in his head, but he needs to see a little more just to make sure it would fit with the story, so he asks for just that. “I just- What happens before this bit? Would you mind showing me so I could just get a better idea of what’s going on?”

The three men nod in agreeance and go to set themselves up for the bit before. They’re only a minute into the previous scene when Harry spots the problem.

Just as Zayn finishes a line and Niall opens his mouth to speak his next one, Harry cuts him off with a wave of a hand. “Okay, wait. I think I’ve figured it out,” he says and then hops up from his spot on the bench, the blanket falling off his shoulders as he stands. He walks over to the trio and starts moving them around. He grasps Zayn by the shoulders and physically shuffles him a few feet to the left, then he walks over to Niall and directs him to Liam’s opposite side. Then he stands back and admires his work. “Say the line again,” he instructs and Zayn complies. Harry grins. “Much better. See now, Zayn, when you say that line from there then you haven’t left this side of the stage yet. Meaning later on, when you finally storm off that way the line you’re saying at the time actually makes sense. Then for Liam, if you enter from the other and end up here, your characters have yet to cross paths you see? Story continuity and all that.”

Niall, Zayn, and Liam all look back and forth amongst themselves, nodding and smiles growing as it all begins to sort itself out in their minds. Harry feels a rush of satisfaction at his work for what is probably the first time in his life. He’s exhausted from his travels, sure. There’s still a storm outside, yeah. These are three strangers who don’t really care what he has to offer besides what will help _them_ be successful, of course. But Harry doesn’t care. For once he finally feels fulfilled with his work, every voice in his head telling him that he was silly for wanting to pursue this dream finally silenced. For the first time in his life, Harry feels like the artist that he’s meant to be, all the creative energy that has only been in his mind up until now finally personified in front of him in the form of three random lads in the middle of a church.

Riding the high of it all, Harry grins back. “Let’s try it again from where Niall says ‘oh heavens’!”.

They run though the scene again, making sure to include Harry’s changes when they do, and it makes so much more sense by the time it’s finished. Harry can’t stop smiling and neither can the other boys. After the last line is said, Niall literally whoops a fist into the air and clicks his heels together like a leprechaun. 

“We’ve got a genius in our midst, I tell ya,” he shouts and then suddenly he’s crowded all up in Harry’s space again, hugging him and planting a wet kiss on his cheek. It smacks with a loud _mwah_ and he’s laughing, and Niall’s laughing and they hold the hug and rock back and forth together despite the fact that Harry’s pants are still slightly damp. At some point, both Liam and Zayn turn it into a group hug and Harry’s heart starts to soar.

He’s not usually the type to make friends so quickly. Throughout his life in the village he had always been the quiet, artsy type that people tended to keep their distance from and he never grew up with a friend that he was particularly close to. Mostly he just sat on his own, reading or writing or staring off into the distance and _thinking_ of writing while all the other kids his age ran around playing sports and getting dirty. His quiet and demure side also made him the victim of vicious taunts from not only the children his age who would push him around and call him a fruit, but also the adults around town. If they weren’t calling him queer to his face, they were telling his mother to watch out, that he was too soft and someone better toughen him up before he turns into a Nancy Boy. Nevertheless, he continued to read and write and dream of moving to London to become an author no matter what the people around town said. 

And it worked out perfectly it seems, since he finds himself in the arms of like-minded people who feel to Harry like friends he’s had for most of his life and not just for less than an hour. With that thought in mind, Harry relishes in the comfort he feels with these boys and hugs them all a little tighter. 

“Thank goodness for you, Harry,” Liam says once they finally detach and sit down side by side in the closest pew. “We’ve been trying to work that scene out for days now.”

“Yeah, you came just in time. I coulda sworn that Zayn was about to kill us both,” chirps Niall.

At that, Zayn simply shrugs and sends a wink in Niall’s direction that neither confirms or denies the accusation. The four of them laugh together and Harry feels just so grateful for the storm that led him here, mulling over the fact that it truly feels like fate's work that brought them together on this particular evening. 

“Well, lads,” Zayn quips. “I’d say this calls for a pint, don’t you?”

**...**

Half an hour and a somewhat damp walk later, Harry finds himself outside a dingy pub that Niall suggested they go with trousers that still have yet to properly dry.

From what he gathered on the way over, this pub seems to be the trio’s usual spot for drinks. Located just off of one of the main London streets, Harry can tell by one quick glance that the pub has definitely seen better days with it’s peeling paint and crooked sign but Niall insists that Harry give it a chance and that it’s _“_ much better than it looks from the outside, mate, I promise. And I never break a promise. Plus the pints are cheap so... _”_.

The three of them head inside and immediately the sound of classes clinking and chairs scraping washes over Harry. Niall, Zayn, and Liam nod and exchange pleasantries with the people they must know as they make their way to a table near the bar. Before Harry knows it, he’s three pints deep and it’s nearing midnight. 

After the boys insisted they pay for his drinks in exchange for his help that “saved their careers”, Harry is just on the edge of tipsy. He’s not sure if it’s from the beers that Niall’s been shoving his way, or a result of finally being in London and he’s riding the high of living his dream, but it doesn’t quite matter in the end, really. His skin feels warm and his blood is buzzing with a contentment he’s never quite felt before. Of course, the fact that he still has no confirmed place to stay for the night is still there nagging at the back of his mind, but in the moment it doesn’t matter. The rain has eased up and he can afford to wander around a little more now, probably even more so when they eventually leave.

For now, he’s living in the moment instead, and this moment just happens to be Niall turning his whole body towards Harry and asking, “So, Harry Styles, what’s your story?”

He makes a mental note to not forget to ask them where the closest hotel is before they part ways at the end of the night before he parrots, “My story?”

“Yeah, mate. Your story,” Niall repeats and all three pairs of eyes are on him now. “What brings you to the lovely expensive city of London?”

It takes Harry a second to respond. Of course there’s the real truth of it all, and then there’s the simple version he tells people out loud. In his fuzzy but not quite drunk brain it’s hard to quickly differentiate the two and though he feels comfortable with these men, he’s not at the point where he’s going to spill his entire life story to them quite yet. When he finally speaks, he fumbles a little on his words, lucky that he can blame it on the alcohol if any of them point it out. “Um, uh, well- I’m not quite sure, really. I mean, I want to be a proper writer one day and I figured London would be my best shot at that.”

He stops there because he’s not really sure how else he’s supposed to explain his life long urge to move to the big city without revealing too much. There’s no way to explain to these boys the complete and utter sense of non-belonging that he’s been shadowed with since the day he was born. Even as a wannabe writer with an arsenal of words in his back pocket, he can’t seem to find the ones that truly encompass just _how_ suffocating it was in Holmes Chapel, just _how_ much it felt like he was drowning his whole life, and how the minute he boarded the train to London it had felt like he’d only just taken his first ever breath, his lungs _finally_ filling with oxygen after twenty years of gasping for air.

“Where are you from then?” Liam inquires. And it’s a normal question to ask, rooted in genuine curiosity, something you’d wonder about when meeting someone new but for Harry it’s not as simple of an answer and Harry thinks that maybe Liam’s asking it because he can tell he’s holding back a little bit, and it’s just making him overwhelmed.

He just knows that people are bound to have opinions about his choices like they did back home. It doesn’t matter where he goes, that is always something that is going to happen, it’s human nature. But the whole point of moving was to get away from the scrutiny, the eyes that silently judge his every move. To get away from the prying eyes that are hoping to expose a part of Harry that he’s not ready to expose.

He came to London to get away from Holmes Chapel and everything that happened in his past. And he knows it’s silly of him to think that coming here would mean he would never have to speak of the village again, but he thought maybe he’d have more time to prepare and think of bare minimum answers for when people asked. It’s only been a few hours since his arrival but he hates talking about home already and it hasn’t even started. London is just so much different than Holmes Chapel because it’s far away and his mother can’t visit and it’s big enough and not one of those places where everyone knows everything about everyone all the time, so why would he waste his time here speaking of the place that is? London is somewhere that people aren’t constantly in your business and instead barely notice you when you’re walking down the street. It’s a city full of strangers who don’t have some sort of predetermined view of Harry and his life and so he’d just rather look forward to the future instead of back into the past.

He chose London because there are shadows he can hide in if he wants to. Away from people and away from everything.

But right now Liam’s brown eyes are a flashlight on him, forcing him out of the darkness. And it’s scary.

So he clears his throat and looks down at his pint glass, breaking eye contact with Liam so that he can get his bearings. He takes a few deep breaths and then a swig of his beer, the feel of the cool liquid calming him down enough that he can feel like he can speak without his voice wavering.

“Um, I’m not sure if you will have heard of it before,” he says once he’s swallowed another gulp of his pint. “It’s pretty small. Holmes Chapel? In Cheshire.”

Small isn’t even the correct word to describe the village. It’s smaller than small, barely even a mark on the map, the population not even at a thousand people. He wouldn’t be shocked if people outside of the area don’t even know where it is since it’s so tiny. But there’s a flash of recognition across Liam’s face, so. 

“I grew up not too far away from there, actually,” he exclaims, his gaze now more understanding when Harry looks back up. “My father used to do business up North quite often so I’ve heard of Cheshire in passing before. Definitely small. I’m from Wolverhampton originally and Zayn here’s from Bradford.” He points his thumb in Zayn’s direction and he just nods slightly and tilts his beer in Harry’s direction in cheers.

With this new knowledge, Harry feels the anxiety that was starting to creep it’s way through his body dissipate.

These aren’t city boys sitting across the table from Harry, the kind who have lived in London their whole lives and don’t know what it’s like to feel the need to get out of their hometown and onto bigger and better things. They aren’t silently judging him for feeling the need to run away from home due to a reason unbeknownst to them. They know exactly why Harry’s done what he has. They grew up close to where he did and know the feeling of living up North in a small town and feeling trapped. Harry probably doesn’t even need to explain to them what brought him here… it’s likely that they already know. 

If he didn’t already feel connected to these people, already feel like fate had brought them together for whatever reason, then he definitely would now. What are the odds that the first few people he meets in London are his age, and grew up near where he did? 

Him, Zayn, and Liam all clink their glasses together and share a look of understanding before Niall ruins it with his brashness. 

“Aw, man. I’m surrounded by a bunch of Northerns then am I? Niall jokes, pouting.

The three of them laugh.

“You know Belfast is more North than all of those places, right, Niall?”

“You know I’m not a complete twat, right Zayn?”

“Pretty damn close, Nialler. Pretty damn close.”

Instead of a snarky comment in retaliation, Niall nudges Zayn by the shoulder and he topples off of his bar stool. Niall nearly spills his drink as he points at Zayn and laughs, Liam just rolls his eyes. Zayn then steadies himself, placing his pint glass down on the safety of the table and nudges Niall right back. The blond boy, still too distracted to defend himself against the attack, falls all the way to the floor and it starts a scuffle between the two of them when he stands back up. They push and shove each other and shout about things that Harry doesn’t understand, but they're laughing too. It’s just so nice and normal, yet unlike anything Harry’s ever experienced himself before, and he can’t help the dimpled smile that spreads across his face.

With one particular rough shove, Niall knocks Zayn’s glass to the ground and they stumble off together to find something to clean it up with and get another round of drinks for the table. Once they’ve left, Liam directs his attention to Harry again.

“So, a writer, huh? What made you decide to do that,” Liam asks.

Harry picks at one of the napkins on the table, ripping it into tiny pieces, another one of his nervous habits. 

“Uh, can’t say it was anything specific to be honest,” he answers. He expects Liam to let him leave it at that, and change the subject after his brief answer, but that would be too easy of course, and so Liam just sits there watching Harry and waiting for him to continue. The deep brown of Liam’s eyes remind Harry of a warm coffee on a cold day and it comforts something deep in his soul and prompts him to remember that there’s no judgement from the other end of the table. “I’ve just always loved words, I guess,” he finally says. “The things they can mean, the way they can make you feel. Just always been fascinated by what you can create with them, you know?”

He shrugs his shoulders when he finishes, feeling embarrassed and insecure. 

He’s explained his love for writing the same way so many times before but he’s never been met with agreement, always just a shake of a head, a judgement-filed look, and a “ _um, no actually, I don’t know_ ”. Nobody back home ever understood what he meant when he talked about writing so what makes him think that Liam will?

That’s why it takes Harry by surprise when Liam answers back with, “I know _exactly_ what you mean. I write a lot of the stuff that we perform. Definitely not a future famous novelist like you by any means,” he nudges Harry playfully by the shoulder and Harry smiles. “But I understand the need to create things with words, more satisfactory than painting or music in my opinion.”

Harry nods so intensely and excitedly that it’s bordering on manic. In fact, he nearly throws his hands up in the air and screams “ _finally!_ ” but he uses all his power to hold himself back.

It’s just… It’s just that this is his _thing_ . This is what he loves, this is what he does, this is his dream. And so to finally, _finally_ sit at a table and speak to someone who actually knows what he means, who feels the same way about the thing that sparks something in Harry’s chest and makes him feel alive is just so surreal. He’s been waiting for this moment for his entire life, and so he just can’t seem to contain any of the thoughts in his head now that that barrier is down, word vomit getting the best of him.

“There’s just so much power in them, right? So much meaning behind each and every one. And just the fact that you can create something out of thin air that doesn’t even exist just by using language it’s- Well, that’s just something I can quite wrap my head around. Words have been used for such great things over the course of mankind, and used for such bad too. It’s just beautiful to me that we as humans even have that ability.”

He emphasizes everything he says with a wave of his hands and arms, swinging them around as he speaks, pint glass and napkin forgotten on the wooden table. He’s been looking everywhere but at Liam, so when they finally fake eye contact again, Harry cuts himself off abruptly with a blush, reminded that there’s another person at the end of his ranting. 

“I’m just- I’m sorry. Im’m rambling. God, you probably don’t want to hear all of that, I apologize.”

Liam chuckles at Harry’s expression but it’s not cruel. He places a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “No, mate, you’re talking to the right guy here. Don’t stop on my account, it’s always lovely to watch people speak so passionately about the things they enjoy.” 

Harry looks down at the table and scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes I just get started and I can’t stop. My mother hates it when I do that.”

“What?” Liam asks incredulously. “Speak about your passion? What is the matter with that?”

God, if Liam only knew. If only he knew how much trouble the things Harry finds joy in can come to cause.

“Just not the passion she wanted me to have, I presume,” Harry answers with a slight shrug. “Not exactly one that will get me far. She would have much rather me have had a passion for farming, or cow milking, whatever it was that would make me money and keep me close to home.”

“Well,” Liam says. “You’re here now aren’t you? So I’d say you got pretty far.” He squeezes Harry's shoulder and looks him right in the eye, his gaze a never ending wave of comfort for Harry. “You belong in London, trust me.”

“You think so?” Harry asks.

“I know so,” Liam confirms. “Take it from the other small town lad with a big dream. London may take your money, it may take your sanity, but it will never take your soul. If what you want brought you here, then this is where you’re meant to be. All the creativity that you have bottled up inside of you will fit right in. You’ve already found us, helped up with our play, and you’ve only been here what? A few hours. Look at everything you’ve already accomplished and think of all the things that you’ll do as time goes on. This is your destiny, Harry Styles.”

Harry laughs in response and tucks himself into Liam’s side for an awkward half-hug situation. “You didn’t mention you were a part-time actor and part-time life coach, Liam.”

Liam’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I just know what you’re feeling right now, I was in your shoes at one point as you know. So trust me, eventually you’ll realize that this place isn’t like how back home ever was, it’s something else entirely. It’s magical here.”

“Magical,” Harry scoffs around a chuckle.

“Yes. Magical, Styles. You’ll see… it’s everything you’ve dreamed of and more. Cheers.” 

He holds his glass up and Harry taps the rim of his glass with Liam’s. They both take a sip, Liam’s arm still draped across Harry’s shoulder and it’s in that moment when Zayn and Niall return to the table with another round for each of them. Harry mumbles a thank you since he still has yet to pay for his own drinks, but the other boys don’t seem to mind and it’s not long before they’re all thrown back into conversation together as they drink.

They spend the next while just talking about everything. What Niall’s life was like back in Ireland, Zayn’s family and his experience growing up with sisters (yet another thing Harry can relate to). They tell Harry the story about how they all met. Something about a bar, and Zayn dressed up like a woman they refer to as Veronica?

“Wait what?” Harry questions as he giggles, definitely crossing into the threshold of drunk by now.

“It was an old group that I used to work with and our main female lead got sick the night before the opening,” Zayn explains. “And I was the only one in the cast who knew all of her lines. So, since my part wasn’t that important, I took her place instead. I wore the dress, the wig, the makeup… everything.”

Harry laughs more at the thought, “You do have quite lovely, feminine features.”

Zayn just flips him off and keeps talking. “ _Anyways_ , due to my brilliant acting skills the show went off without a hitch and the cast wanted to go out for drinks to celebrate. We all thought it would be funny if I just stayed in costume and see if people noticed, and so I did. I must have looked very beautiful because Niall, drunk off his face started to hit on me, grabbed my boob and everything.”

“It was going so well too,” Niall complains. He groans and puts his forehead down on the table, shaking his fist jokingly in the air. When he sits back up and looks at Harry, he actually looks properly devastated. Harry giggles again and Niall narrows his eyes at him. “I was so sure I was going to leave there with a beautiful bird on my arm… until I accidentally pulled the wig off and suddenly I was standing there in front of a man. Albeit a gorgeous one, but very, very much a man.”

“I'm not kidding when I say Niall screamed like the lass I was supposed to be,” Zayn adds, cackling.

“I thought I’d pulled all your hair out of your head!” Niall screeches loudly, and a couple men at the table next to them turn to eye them. Niall just waves them away with an,” All good lads, mind your business.”

Harry turns to Liam then, “Where were _you_ in all this?” he asks the laughing boy.

“Watching from the bar,” Liam says, “I’d seen the show that night so I recognized the group and could tell what was going on as it happened. I’m not lying to you when I say that I nearly pissed myself laughing. In the end, I had to go over and say something, it was all too good not to.”

“Once Niall stopped mourning the loss of him pulling that night, we all got to talking and realized we were interested in acting. Liam mentioned wanting to write some stuff, and Niall and I were looking for work to do and so the three of us decided to start performing together since we got on so well,” Zayn explains further. “We’ve had a few others come and go as we’ve needed them for shows, but it’s mostly been the three of us for what, over two and half years now?” He looks to the other boys and they all nod, smiling.

“That’s incredible,” Harry says in awe.

It makes him a little jealous and left out while he listens to them talk about friendship since he’s never really experienced that before, or had people in his life that share the same interests or what to spend their time doing the same things as he. Instead a lot of his childhood was spent alone while he scribbled words of a world just in his head into reality. 

“We live together too,” adds Niall. ‘Well, Zayn and Liam live together and I live next door. But it’s basically the same thing.”

“Niall!” Zayn scolds. And Liam tenses beside him.

Harry’s eyes widen slightly before he can help it and a slight, “ _Oh_ ,” escapes past his lips.

Does this mean… Zayn and Liam? Harry’s afraid to ask but God, does he wish he could just ask. If it does then that means Harry really, truly has found a safe group of people.

The three men eye him warily.

“Will that be a problem?” Zayn asks, voice tense and Harry realizes how his reaction may have come across.

“Oh, God. Not a problem at all,” Harry hurries out. “No no no. Trust me, it’s not-”

He cuts himself off and a wave of understanding passes across the four of them. 

If only they knew how very much not a problem it is, but of course he doesn’t say that out loud. 

This isn’t something you say out loud. Niall has already said too much.

It’s just... The way they just speak of two men living alone together like it’s no big deal takes Harry aback. The thought of that happening back in Holmes Chapel would have been a village scandal, made to feel like the end of the world and the most sinful of things. Even if two men even _looked_ at each for a moment that lingered, it would have been the talk of the town. So, no. It’s not bad, or a problem, or anything of the sort just… surprising is all. And every second that passes Harry is reminded how very different the two places are. 

London modern and bohemian in ways that Holmes Chapel couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

It’s all so new and refreshing and Harry adores it.

“With all this time you spend together, how do you not get sick of one another,” Harry says in order to ease some of the tension that has washed across the group and to navigate the conversation back to safer waters. Niall’s the one that takes the bait and his posture eases back to something more comfortable and less standoffish. 

“I mean you saw what happened at the church,” he explains. “That’s the reality more often than not.” Then he slings an arm each around the shoulders of both Zayn and Liam. “But, these lads are like brothers, I can’t imagine what I would do without them.”

“Aw, Nialler, don’t get all soft on us now,” Liam teases and reaches a hand to ruffle through Niall’s hair and mess it up. It tangles together on the top of his head like a bird’s nest but he makes no attempt to fix it. 

“Piss off, Payno,” he responds with a grin and he pulls the duo in close and presses a smacking kiss to the tops of their heads and then releases them. The love between them all glaringly obvious, Harry can’t help but smile. They’d all take a bullet for each other, Harry can tell. 

“So, what happens now that the show is fixed?” Harry asks once they’ve all detached and sat back on their own stools.

‘Well, we need to find ladies to fill the female roles, as you know. And now is usually the point where we also attempt to find somewhere to perform. Cheap preferably, but well enough known that we won’t just be performing to an empty room,” Liam explains.

“There’s a venue we have our sights set on, but it’s only a silly little dream of ours, doubt it’ll ever happen,” Zayn adds with a sigh and a dismissive wave of his hand. It’s meant to come off as nonchalant but Harry can see the hurt that hides behind the action. Even Niall looks forlorn across the table as he too takes a drink.

Liam though, smacks his palm onto the table and Harry jumps a little in his seat at the sudden sound. The other boys hardly looked phased at Liam’s outburst. “It _will_ happen, Z,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “We just need to find a way to convince Simon Cowell to let us put on the show at The Belle Ame. All expenses paid by him, of course.”

“And how do you reckon we do that Li, huh?” There’s a condescending note to Zayn’s voice that takes Harry by surprise, so far he hasn’t seemed like the type who gets upset or angry often. “The three of us together barely have a nickel to our names, we’ve got nothing to contribute at all. Not to mention our show isn’t even close to being finished and you really think he’s going to let us perform at The Belle Ame? The Belle _Ame_ , Liam, really? And pay for it all at that?”

Liam doesn’t sink at the glare that Zayn’s shooting at him and instead just sits up straighter in his stool.

“It’s worth a shot,” Liam exclaims. Niall stays quiet, his eyes simply flitting back and forth between the two men bickering. “He’s our only chance to make anything of ourselves, we might as well _try_.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at Liam again and takes a long gulp of his drink, finishing off his pint and slamming the glass back on the table just a little too harshly, clearly annoyed. To Harry this once again seems like one of those arguments that has happened many times before and he sort of feels like he’s intruding on something that he shouldn’t be, something that’s been in the works for quite a while and he doesn’t know what to do. He opts for sitting in silence like Niall, just watching the scene unfold before him.

Zayn’s voice is sharp when he speaks again, words cutting like knives through the din of the pub. “You’re mad if you think for a second that we can just stroll right in, talk to _the_ Simon Cowell, part owner of the entire club for God’s sake and think that he’ll give us the time of the day no questions asked? Let alone allow us to put on a show at the hottest spot in all of London right now that _he’s_ paying for? We are street rats, Liam. Look at us. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only thing he does is slam the doors in our faces as soon as we arrive.”

Liam expression finally falls, “I just think-”

“Well, stop.” Zayn snaps, cutting Liam off with a wave of his hand. “It’s a silly idea and you’re getting your hopes up just to have them crushed. We cannot go through that again, we will not survive it.”

“But, Za-” Liam pleads, unshed tears sitting just below the surface of his brown eyes.

“No Liam. Just stop,” Zayn says and it’s got a finality to it that Harry’s so often heard from his mother.

Liam’s open mouth clamps shut and he bows his head, testing his fingers on the surface of the table, looking very much like a scolded child. Zayn crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back a little on his stool, eyes narrowed. Harry and Niall just sit there silently still, watching the two of them over the rims of their pint glasses.

When the tension gets too much for Harry to handle, he speaks up, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude but what exactly is this Belle Ame that you speak of?”

Niall is the one who answers, Zayn and Liam still too busy scowling at each other. “Why, it’s only the most famous night club in London right now,” he exclaims. Not even the glare of his friends is enough to deter form his seemingly constant good mood.

“Really?” asks Harry, interest piqued. 

“Yes, really. Oh, Harry, it is the best club I’ve ever been to in my life,” he says breathily. A twinkle glints in his eye as he speaks and his voice is soft as if he’s telling them of a dream, and Harry can almost paint a picture in his own mind of what Niall’s talking about with every word. “Big, crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings, and sparkling lights that drape from one side of the club to the other-”

“And the dancers!” Liam interrupts, the pout now gone from his face and replaced with an excited smile.

Niall stares off into the distance like it’s playing out there right in front of his eyes, and his voice still has that dream-like quality when he speaks again,” Yes, the dancers. The most beautiful women you’ve ever seen in your life dressed in grand and colourful costumes.” Harry closes his eyes and lets Niall’s words create a scene in his mind. “They twirl and dance as if there’s nobody watching them, their dresses flow around them like waves from the ocean. There’s also a live band that plays on stage and the music spills out into the whole club, and it’s just like nothing you’ve ever seen before, I can guarantee it.”

Colours drift past the back of his eyelids like curtains in a breeze.

“It sounds amazing,” Harry breathes out as he opens his eyes back up to see the other three lads staring at him. He forgot he was in public there for a second.

“It _is_ amazing, Harry,” Niall says excitedly. “More amazing than you could ever dream. London’s own Moulin Rouge, but better.”

“Niall,” Liam adds. “You’re forgetting the best part.”

Niall looks at Liam confused and takes a moment to think, before a wave of recognition passes across his face. “Oh yes, right. How could I forget about Louis Tomlinson.”

“Louis Tomlinson? Who’s he?” Harry asks curiously. He’s never heard a name quite like Louis Tomlinson before.

“He’s one of the male dancers at the club. A little lad, a couple inches shorter than you I presume, but by George can he dance. He moves in ways I’ve never seen another person move before, and probably a better dancer than any of the women I would say,” says Liam. “But it’s not his dancing that draws him attention. It’s his voice. When this boy sings, well…” Liam trails off.

“Well?” Harry pushes. He wants to know more about this Louis Tomlinson with the beautiful voice and this club that they speak so highly about.

“Well, it’s like nothing you’ve ever heard before I can guarantee it.” Niall finishes, repeating his words from earlier.. “His voice alone is what brings people flocking to the club. People practically throw money away just for a chance to hear him sing. It’s pandemonium.”

Harry’s heard enough, he’s sold.

“We must go,” he requests.

“Right now?” Niall asks and he glances at his pocket watch for the time.

Harry shrugs, “I’m not from around here, mate. You tell me.” 

Now. Later. It doesn’t matter, Harry just wants to go whenever he can. He wants to hear this Louis Tomlinson bloke with the voice of an angel.

Zayn is the one who speaks next for the first time in a while. “I believe he doesn’t perform until next Saturday evening, so if he’s who you want to see then we’ll have to wait until then. But I will remind you that he’s the star of the show, everyone and their mother’s will be there looking to see him sing.”

“That’s alright with me. I’ll stand outside the club just to hear a glimpse if I have to. Plus, if we spend the next ten days leading up to Saturday to fine tune the show then we can make sure it is good enough for Simon and we can present it to him while we're there. I’m sure he expects nothing but perfection.”

“Wait,” Zayn starts. “You want to-”

“Yes.”

Niall chuckles but he looks around at the other boys with a question in his eye. “How about it boys? Next Saturday night we take Harry to see Louis Tomlinson and knock the socks off of Simon Cowell, and by Sunday morning we’ll be on track to becoming the most famous actors in all of England!”

**...**

And so over the next week and a half the boys spend every waking moment working tirelessly on the show.

It turns out, in another ridiculously perfect act of fate that Niall just so happens to be looking for a roommate since his old one just moved out and he can no longer afford the rent on his own. When he’d mentioned it at the pub, Harry nearly screamed because seriously, what are the odds? But luckily, managed to keep his cool and mention back to Niall that he just so happens to be looking for a place to live himself and that if Niall wouldn’t mind having him he would love to move in since they’ll be working together anyways. Niall of course said yes and Harry was able to send a letter to his mother to let her know that he had found a place to stay.

Each morning without fail, Niall wakes Harry up just as the sun breaks above the horizon, the world still tinted in the blue glow of dawn, and they walk the short distance to the church with Zayn and Liam. 

The four of them sit on the hard church floor and share bitter coffee and slightly stale muffins from the cafe across the road while they discuss the plan for the day with still tired voices until Liam, the ever so demanding, forces them up and to work.

And also each morning without fail, they stand with groans and complaints about being too tired while Liam reminds them what they're fighting for until the excitement of what’s to come washes away the sleep better than the coffee does.

Day after day Harry finds himself flitting from the pews, to the floor, to the organ bench and back again as he writes and directs the other three men, the show slowly coming together as the hours drag on. He swings his arms up and over every which way while he demonstrates what to do. He nitpicks the parts that don’t seem quite right. And together, the three of them work through it scene by scene, line by line.

They write and rewrite basically the entire script from start to finish multiple times over on the first day alone, adjusting something here, and taking out something else there before it feels good enough to show to Simon.

And then from there, they run it through over and over and over again, not a single mistake allowed to be made or they start from the beginning, until they’re able to recite it word for word in their sleep.

And sometimes, Niall does.

Garbled murmurs of lines from the show escape past his lips a few times in the night while Harry is trying to fall asleep against the ever constant buzzing of the city that he’s not quite used to yet.

At the end of every day when they really should go right to bed, the boys instead celebrate the progress they’ve made at the same pub from Harry’s first night.

They shout and they laugh and they tell anecdotes from the hours before even though they were all there to witness them. And they down a few pints each before they stumble back to their respective flats, weighed down heavily by alcohol and exhaustion, and do it all over again a few hours later when the sun shows its face again. Harry is so tired he practically has to drag himself up the stairs and down the hall to his and Niall’s front door, and then furthermore crawl on his hands and knees to his bedroom by the end of the fourth day. But it’s worth it. Eventually, the exhaustion weighs out against the noise of London and Harry falls asleep right as his head hits the pillow, a ghost of a smile spread across his face even in slumber. 

By the time Harry is able to slow down and take a proper breath, it’s Friday night, the day before they’re meant to go to the club and the sun has just started to set. They’re still at the church, streaks of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, highlighting the dust as it floats down all around them, and painting colourful pictures on the walls; The whole of it all made even more beautiful by the glow that comes with golden hour.

The boys are all laying silently on the floor of the church after giving up on working anymore about half an hour prior.

Harry’s on his back and lying face up with his hands crossed behind his head, eyes sweeping back and forth across the ceiling while he takes slow, deep breaths for the first time in what feels like weeks. Zayn’s in a similar position to Harry only a few feet away, his eyes closed and his stomach rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He isn’t quite asleep, just completely calm. Liam’s right next to him on his stomach, tracing the patterns of the wood grain of the floor while he recites lines quietly under his breath. And Niall is snoring quietly to Harry’s left, on his side and with his knees curled to his chest, his hands tucked underneath his cheeks. He looks like a small child and the room is exponentially quieter without his constant energy bursting everywhere. 

As the minutes pass quietly, Harry can feel himself slowly drifting off as well. His eyelids grow heavy and each time he blinks it takes more and more effort to open them again. The stiff wood under his back is a constant pressure that would usually be painful and uncomfortable in other circumstances, but with the events of the past week and half Harry thinks he could probably fall asleep anywhere if he wanted to.

He lets his eyes flutter shut completely, finally giving into the sleep that is threatening to overtake him. There isn’t a mass due until seven that night and so they can afford to take a little nap before they have to hand the church over for its original purposes. But the serenity doesn’t last long because just as Harry’s breathing starts to even out, Niall begins to stir and the groan he makes as he stretches awake is loud enough to cut through the silence and startle Harry back to full consciousness. He blinks awake slowly, mimicking Niall’s motions and sprawls his arms and legs out fully. He tenses and relaxes the muscles and arches his back a few times to try and rid the ache that has started to spread across his lower back.

Sensing the movement, Zayn and Liam both turn in Harry and Niall’s direction.

“Welcome back to reality, princess,” Zayn drawls.

Niall just yawns, ignores Zayn’s teasing and instead just says, “So, how about dinner, lads?” as he sits up.

Harry sits up too and shares a look with Zayn and Liam before they all nod in sync. Once again they find themselves at the pub about half an hour later, pint glass in front of each of them and their food orders placed.

The pub is bustling with people (it is a Friday night after all), but the four of them are quiet, sipping silently at their beers, all caught up in their own heads thinking about what’s to come the next day and too tired to try and make conversation. There’s an anxious energy thrumming through Harry’s veins, just below the surface of his skin and though exhausted, he feels like he can’t quite sit still. The anticipation for tomorrow is causing his heart to _thumpthumpthump_ quicker than it usually does and he can hear it pumping in his ears. He takes another sip of beer but it nearly comes right back up, nervousness sitting heavy in his chest making it hard to swallow even his own saliva. The flurry of activity from the week has finally caught up to him now that he’s had a chance to slow down, and it makes him feel like he could throw up.

They’ve finished the play, yes.

They’ve practiced it over and over until it’s been ingrained into their subconscious, yes.

They’ve spent every single second of every single day for the past almost week and a half putting everything they possibly can into this production, sure.

But…

But what if they mess up and the whole thing goes terribly wrong? What if Simon decides to not even give them the time of day like Zayn said? What if all their hard work has been for nothing?

What if Harry’s writing is absolutely atrocious and Simon hates it and then turns him into the laughing stock of London and then he has to go back to Holmes Chapel and work for his father and tell his mother that she was right and then he’s miserable for the rest of his life and dies alone?

Harry knows of course that he can sit and stew in ‘what if’s for the rest of his life and let the fear take over to the point where it holds him back from doing the things he loves. But the truth of it is that when all is said and done, whether they’ve busted their asses and worked themselves to the bone and the show goes perfectly or not, Simon is the one who makes the decision. Simon is the one who says yes or no, and there’s nothing any of them can do to change that. He is the one with the power in this situation, he has the control, he holds both the lock _and_ the key.

And well, that’s what scares the shit out of Harry.

Knowing from this moment on, nothing is in his control anymore absolutely terrifies him. It forces him into his head. And his head is dark and twisty and he tries his best to stay out of it because his brain has a tendency to say all the wrong things and make him feel like shit no matter how hard he tries to fight back. He fights with all that he’s got, going everything he can to refuse to let the smoky tendrils of fear wrap around his throat and squeeze until no oxygen can get through. On so many occasions he’s fought with all his might to keep that fear at bay, but tonight… right now in a packed pub in the middle of London, hours away from the only life he’s ever known, surrounded by three people he’s only just met, and just under twenty four hours away from the thing that could make or break the _rest of his life_ , it’s hard. And it’s scary. And he’s too tired this time to fan away that fog. And so, he gives into the fear for the briefest of moments, letting it put him in a chokehold while Zayn, Liam, and Niall chatter away about something across the table from him.

Because seriously? What were the odds of all of this happening how it did? Him finding them in the church, them just so _happening_ to be performers looking for a writer, Niall in desperate need of a roommate, them all getting on well from the very first second and being kind and open towards Harry even though they really didn’t need to at all? Harry thinks it must be slim to none, a coincidence if he ever saw one.

He could have wandered into anywhere that night, could have stopped at a hotel or turned the other way down the street instead.

But he didn’t. He chose the church and he chose these boys and he chose to help them and now they’re a day away from standing in front of a very, _very_ powerful man with their souls bared and their hearts literally in his hands while they beg for his help.

And so Harry just feels like this is where his luck so far is bound to run out. Here. Now. In this pub. The night before him and Zayn and Liam and Niall will even be given the chance to show Simon Cowell what they’re made of. Because this many good things cannot happen to one person in a row, it is simply not possible. It’s not how the world works.

He wants to take this one in a million chance in stride, he really does. Wants to do the best he possibly can and finally fulfill everything he’s wished for his entire life. But the tornado of darkness swirling inside his mind, getting stronger and stronger with each second that passes, is threatening to take that away. To swallow up everything he’s worked for and every dream he’s had into its strong winds and hurl them away as far as possible. To spit them out in the middle of nowhere with no direction on how to get back.

***** Suddenly, the walls of the pub feel too close, the room too small, and Harry needs air. He needs air now.

He stands abruptly, pushing his stool back with a screech that would be ear piercing if he were able to hear anything other than the rush of his blood and the high pitched ringing that won’t stop. The boys turn to look at him in confusion and the three pairs of eyes staring at him are just too much. Just too much.

Harry can’t breathe. He can’t breathe at all, and the tips of his fingers are numb, and it feels like there’s a pile of bricks just thrown onto his diaphragm, like his ribs have impaled into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his lungs and he can’t quite inhale the right amount of air to keep him alive.

Is it hot in the bar or just Harry? Or cold? Harry’s cold too. But he’s hot. And everything hurts but at the same time, everything is numb.

He needs to get _out_ and he needs to get out five minutes ago.

He’s not sure if he actually gets the words out, not sure of anything really except the absolute deafening pound of his heart, but he tries to say something along the lines of “Jus’ gotta wee, be back in a min” before he bolts from the table in search of the front door.

He stumbles a bit, knocking into a few of the tables on his way out, and if any of the patrons turn to look at him then he has no idea. But eventually he makes it outside and into the open air of the London streets. Immediately, he steps to the side and slides down the brick wall of the pub until he’s sitting on the ground with his head in between his knees that he curls up to his chest. He screw his eyes shut tight and tries his best to inhale and exhale slowly as to finally get some air into his lungs, but it’s shaky and shallow and just not enough. Even the fresh air from outside, as opposed to the stuffy and hazy air from inside the pub, isn’t enough and Harry still feels like he’s run a marathon, unable to catch his breath.

This complete and utter panic that is coursing through his body, though unwelcome, is not unknown and is actually a feeling that he’s felt a number of times throughout his life, just never like this.

Growing up, whenever he felt like his heart was going to burst right out from his chest from beating so hard and so fast, he would go and find Gemma and curl himself into her side until he was able to calm himself down. No matter what she was doing or what was happening, if Harry ever came to her in a panic, she would never ask what was wrong or try to fix anything, she would just wordlessly lift her arm and then place a soothing hand on Harry’s back and rub in slow circles up and down his spine for however long she needed until the answer to her, “Better now, Hazza?” was either a nod or a vocalized “Yes” from Harry. Most of the time, just knowing her had the comfort of his sister whenever he needed was enough to calm Harry down to the point that he wouldn’t even need Gemma in the first place, but right now he’s all alone. A whole entire train ride away from home and freaking the fuck out.

Harry can’t help the tears that pool in the corners of his eyes, slipping down his cheeks as quickly as he can wipe them away. It frustrates him even more, the fact that he’s twenty years old, sitting on the sidewalk, pressed up against a random London pub, and _crying like a baby_.

Oh, God, the things his mother would say if she could see him now.

She wouldn’t even care that he was upset and instead wouldn’t be able to hold back the “I told you so” that’s been sitting on the tip of her tongue for basically Harry’s whole life as soon as she saw him crumpled into a pile of shame on the ground like he is right now.

The thought makes Harry cry even harder. If he can’t even impress his own mother, how the hell does he expect to woo the co-owner of one of the biggest clubs in London?

He just continues to sob as people enter and exit the pub doors, not even caring about the strange boy sitting on the ground and acting a fool. After a minute or two, Harry feels a comforting hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t even have to raise his head to know that it’s Liam. *****

“Harry?” he asks quietly and Harry looks up slowly, wiping away the snot and tears from his face. He must look an absolute mess, a fool, but he looks up from under his clumped together lashes and meets the deep brown of Liam’s eyes from where he’s crouched down beside Harry. “You okay?”

Harry’s automatic is to nod and lie even though it’s so clearly obvious that he’s not even close to okay, but then another tear trails down his cheek and Liam is looking at him with so much concern that mid-nod, Harry changes it instead to a shake of his head. Without a word, Liam crowd closer to Harry and sits down beside him on the sidewalk, sliding his arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close so that he’s now tucked right under it, just like with Gemma.

He chokes out a sob. He misses his sister more than he could ever explain, but the weight of Liam’s arm is exactly what he needs in the moment.

Liam's voice is gentle and caring. “You wanna talk about it?”

Harry shakes his head and drops his head in embarrassment. “Not much to talk about, really.” He can see Liam’s look of concern out of the corner of his eye and wipes at his nose. “Just nervous ‘s all.” His voice is scratchy and rough when he speaks, but at least he can breathe again with Liam’s body pressed to his side. He feels himself start to calm down slowly, oxygen once again filling his lungs to their full capacity.

“About tomorrow,” Liam states, and it’s not a question but Harry nods anyways, still looking down at his own lap. “Don’t worry, we all are.”

“Really?” Harry inquires, lifting his head and turning to look at Liam. Lima nods his head quickly and squeezes Harry’s shoulders.

“Of course,” he coos. “I know it may not seem like it but we are. No matter how many times we do this, we all still get nervous in the lead up to it. In fact, Niall usually sleeps at Zayn and I’s flat the night before so that we’re all together.” Through his sniffles, Harry manages a little chuckle and Liam smiles softly. “This is a big deal, you’re allowed to be nervous.”

“I just don’t want to mess it all up,” Harry admits quietly. “It’s not just my dream we’re talking about here, it’s all of yours too.”

Liam turns so he’s facing Harry. “Yes. But that also means that it’s not just your responsibility for this whole thing to go well. It’s ours too, Harry, and if it goes wrong then that’s on all of us and not just you. This isn’t just yours to carry on your own.”

Harry allows his body to fully relax at that. Liam’s right, Harry hasn’t been the only one working on this, it’s equally as much the other boys’ fault if anything goes wrong then it is his.

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Liam winks at him and Harry finally smiles for the first time that evening. “I always am. Now, as much as I would love to stay out here with you and talk feelings, I actually came to find you because the food arrived and I personally like to enjoy my meals warm.” He retracts his arm from Harry’s body and stands up, brushing at his trousers to get rid of the dirt. He looks down at Harry still folded up on the ground and smiles back. “Take your time coming back, there’s no rush and I can make something up to the lads. But just remember that you’re not alone in this, H. We’re a team.”

“The world’s _greatest_ team,” Harry responds and Liam gives him a grin and an " _Atta boy_ ” before he turns to walk back into the pub. Harry takes another deep breath now that he can and then says, “Hey Liam?”

He’s only taken one step away from Harry and so he swivels back around, hand on the door handle of the pub. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Harry says timidly, “You know… for helping me and dealing with my problems even though you barely know me and all that…”

Liam opens the door to let a couple inside but he’s squinting a smile at Harry, teeth showing, and then shrugs. “They don’t call me Big Daddy Payne for nothing, you know.”

“Call you what?” Harry shrieks with a sputtered laugh but Liam just winks at him again and then slips inside the pub.

With one last swipe to his damp eyes, Harry stands on wobbly legs, the blood rushing to his feet after sitting for so long. He takes a second to compose himself, adjusts his clothes to the best of his ability and then heads back into the pub. Liam’s waiting just inside the door and so they walk back to the table together. Niall and Zayn are watching them approach inquisitively and Zayn titles his head to the side as if to ask _‘all_ _good_?’ and Harry nods back with a smile as he sits back down.

After that the rest of the meal goes smoothly. Now that he’s aware of it, Harry’s able to see what Liam meant about them all being nervous. Zayn’s leg bounces up and down on the footrest of his stool constantly through the entire night and Niall doesn’t quite laugh as loud as he usually does and he pushes his food around on his plate more than he actually eats it. Harry even catches Liam a couple of times with his thumb up to his mouth, chewing at the skin on the side or biting at the nail until there’s nothing left.

_We’re a team_ , Harry repeats in his head like a mantra throughout dinner. _Not everything is on just your shoulders. You can do this. You’re okay. The greatest team that the world will ever see_.

Eventually, at some point between the end of dinner and the beginning of their third round of pints, the conversation finds itself turned to the subject that they’ve all been avoiding.

It’s Zayn who brings it up. “I still don’t know how you’re planning to convince Simon to let us perform at the club, Niall.”

Harry watches while Niall rolls his eyes and Liam diverts his gaze, acting particularly interested in the bartender making drinks behind the bar even though all Harry’s ever seen him drink is beer.

Before it can escalate into an argument that none of them have the energy for tonight, Harry asks the question that’s pressing on his mind for the last couple days but that he’s been too shy to ask until today. They’ve yelled at each other too much over the past week, and Harry’s too tired and too non-confrontational to fight any more and he feels like that’s the direction this whole thing may go in if he doesn’t intervene. 

“This Louis Tomlinson bloke…,” he starts. Three pairs of eyes stare at him. “Do you think he knows anyone who could help us look better in front of Simon? I mean you said he’s a popular performer, but I’m sure he’s more attainable and easier to talk to than the owner of the club, no?”

It was an idea he thought of a few days prior and he’s not even sure if the boys themselves know the answer but he figures they’ve got nothing to lose at this point, if there’s anything that can be done to help them figure this out, then he’s going to try and do it. 

“Like an investor you mean? Someone who is willing to pay for the show?” Liam asks and Harry nods.

“Yes, or anybody with connections in show business that could help us out. Someone with a lot of money who is willing to help a poor, ragtag team of boys with a love of acting follow their dreams.” The latter half of the sentence makes the group laugh a little, easing some of the tension and nervousness away.

After some thought, Liam is the one who answers Harry again. “I mean, I’m sure there is. Louis’ got rich men falling at his feet every time he’s at the club, I’m sure he’s gotten to know some of them well enough to not be afraid to ask them for a little investment.”

There’s another moment of silence where they all mull it over and are caught up in their own thoughts of ways they could make this situation work for them. Harry ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer, tapping his fingers on the rough wood of the table just willing his mind to think of something… anything… that can help them in the coming day. He’s on the verge of giving up, throwing the towel in and saying it is what it is, nothing they can do about it, when Zayn suddenly sits up straighter with a smirk.

The three of them stare at Zayn, waiting for him to speak.

“Zayn….” Silence. “Zayn, what’s that look? What are you thinking?” Niall asks, shaking him by the shoulders to try and get him to speak while Zayn simply looks past Niall and into the distance, his lips quirked up to the side in a sly sort of smile that’s got Harry buzzing in his seat with anticipation, waiting for him to say something already.

When he does, it’s slow, like he’s still putting the pieces together in his mind as he says it out loud, and yet it’s confident. A combination only Zayn Malik would be able to pull off honestly. “I think-” They all let out the breath they’ve been holding. “I think… that we propose our idea to Louis Tomlinson himself instead.”

“We what?” The three of them ask in unison. Zayn’s smile is wicked now.

“We perform for him instead and we blow him away so bad that he basically _begs_ Simon to put on our show.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Liam, always the voice of reason, responds. “Like both you and Niall have said before, we’re street rats, the bottom of the barrel, and this is _Louis Tomlinson_ for Christ’s sake.”

“We lie,” Zayn states simply.

“We what?” Niall repeats.

“We _lie_ , Niall. We… we-” Zayn pauses to think again for a second, and Harry, Niall and Liam all lean in closer while they wait, like some sort of terribly acted film. “We tell him that… Harry’s a- a… famous writer. Yeah!” Zayn rambling now, the words tumbling out so quickly that Harry tries his hardest to follow. “A famous writer who is travelling the world far and wide to find the perfect place to put on one of his plays. And that the second he stepped into the _Belle Ame_ he knew it was the place. And he heard that, uh, that-”

He trails off, his hands circling in front of him while he tries to figure out what’s next. Liam chimes in right away. “He heard that Louis is the best of the best. And the only one person that would be able to help a tired, traveling writer fulfill his dream.”

“You think he’ll fall for that?” Harry asks, with what only can be described as doubt coating his tone.

“I think he’ll fall for anything if we give him a reason too.” Zayn says, and the look in his eyes is mischievous at the least, and determined at the most. This plan so far seems to involve a whole lot of lying on all of their parts, but especially Harry’s and to be honest he’s never been a good liar at the best of times, let alone with his whole future riding on his shoulders. If his subpar lying skills are what messes it up for all of them, then he’ll never forgive himself. And he doubts that Liam, Niall, and Zayn would forgive him either, despite the pep talk and reassurances from Liam earlier. This is now a whole different ball game than it was before.

“What’cha mean?” Niall asks.

“We give him a part in the show.” Zayn explains and Harry’s jaw drops slightly. “A big one, yeah? So then it seems like _we_ are doing a service to _him_ instead of the other way around.”

“But, Zayn-”

“No, Liam, listen. He’s a performer, right? And a good one at that but they always want more. He’d be stupid not to accept the lead role in a show written by a world famous playwright if it was presented right to him.” Zayn explains further and then he shoots a look in Harry’s direction, the plan already seemingly solidified in Zayn’s mind even though none of them have agreed on it quite yet.

“But I’m not a world famous playwright, Zayn,” he reminds him with his own curt glance.

Zayn’s brown eyes sparkle with something that intimidates Harry right to his core and he knows this isn’t something he’s going to be able to get out of, Zayn’s mouth set in a determined line. And as much as it’s a terrible idea, it also kind of makes sense.

“He doesn’t know that though, does he?” Zayn prompts. “I think that as long as there is something in it for him, he’ll be more willing to take it to Simon. He’s a singer and a dancer which means he’s also egotistical, he wants to be a star and we can make him one… or so he thinks.”

Liam has his arms crossed over his chest and looks like he’s completely shut the idea down. Niall, on the other hand, looks sceptical but curious and Harry thinks his own expression might look the same.

“Your part is the main part of the show though, Zayn. Are you willing to give that up?” Liam asks.

Zayn looks at Liam with resolution. “I’m willing to give up pretty much anything if it means we have a real opportunity to put on one of our shows in a gig that actually matters and gives us a chance to truly get noticed. We can always rewrite it slightly before tomorrow so that we’re each in it enough to be seen if any sort of casting director were to come and see it.”

In the short ten days that Harry’s known these boys, he’s never heard Zayn speak with such passion about anything before. Not that he’s shy or quiet, but it’s definitely hard to stand out when put up beside the firecracker that is Niall, who talks with passion in his voice about anything and everything. If he wasn’t already nervous for tomorrow to the point where he could potentially shit his pants, then he definitely is now with what the way Zayn is looking back and forth between him and Liam like this is the answer to all of their problems, which, well, it actually could be.

He still isn’t sure if it’s a _good_ idea but it’s something, and Niall is now beaming at Zayn from across the table, and Harry can see that even some of Liam’s reluctance has begun to fade, his eyes softening and his posture less tense than it had been a minute ago. Harry looks away from Zayn and to Liam. They share a look for a moment and then Liam purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders a little, which can only mean one thing.

“You really think it will work?” Harry asks after some internal deliberation, a quick weight of the pros against cons. Liam’s turned back to Zayn now and is holding back what looks to be a tentative smile.

“Well, Harold, do you happen to have a fancy suit in that suitcase of yours?” Zayn asks and Harry watches the corner of his mouth begin to pull up.

Harry scoffs at the question. Like really, truly scoffs. What a ridiculous question.

“I’m a wannabe writer, Zayn. Of course I brought a suit.”

Zayn’s dark eyes light up, and it’s mirrored around the table in the other boys’ expressions. Harry lets a teeth-baring grin spread across his face.

This is going to be good, Harry convinces himself. He’s caring, he’s charming, he can pretend he’s famous if it means he gets the thing that he’s wanted for his whole life. It’s not lying… it’s just, twisting the truth, putting a little spin on reality for an edge up on the competition. Acting. Yes… acting. He can act.

“Then it’s settled,” Zayn calls out triumphantly. “Tomorrow we will propose our idea to Louis Tomlinson, the greatest performer of our generation.”

The four of them beam at each other from across the wooden table and Harry’s not sure if what he’s feeling anymore is fear or excitement, but he doesn’t care. 

“For now, we drink!” Niall says and he thrusts his beer into the air, some of it sloshing out over the rim at the movement. Himself, Liam and Zayn all mirror the movement as they laugh.

“What should we toast to?” Zayn asks, eyeing each of them from his periphery. 

“To Louis Tomlinson!” Harry supplies and the three other men cheer and whoop and tap their glasses together in celebration, the echo of glass clinking together ringing out and mingling with the buzz of exhilaration in the air.

“Salud!” Zayn and Liam respond in unison.

“Slainte!” Niall shouts and the four of them take large gulps of their drinks as they try and hold back their elation. It’s useless and Harry can see the smiles of the other boys stretched over the rims of their pints, the pink of their lips all turned up into grins, and their eyes full of something that feels suspiciously like a dream coming true. 

**Author's Note:**

> thx for reading! pls pls pls leave comments and kudos if you liked it and follow me on twitter @91HAPPILY94 if you feel like it. mwah!!! xoxo
> 
> ps. ten points to whoever can tell me what 'belle ame' translates to without googling it


End file.
